


From Preacherman to Judas in Three Easy Steps

by shouldgowork



Category: Nathan Barley (TV), The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4056892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldgowork/pseuds/shouldgowork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Dan Ashcroft hit rock bottom and lost the Idiots (while gaining one of his own) using an extended awkward silence, Rudyard Kipling and a housefly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Preacherman to Judas in Three Easy Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Oxymoronic for much-needed proofreading!

1

If any man could be smug that jumping out of a 2nd storey window wasn’t his lowest point, it was Dan Ashcroft. Nor was it the two week stay in hospital as his legs and ribs slowly fused back together, sensing his entire body punishing him for what he still internally claimed was the only logical conclusion to Nathan _fucking_ Barley cycling into his life.  As things went from bad to worse, Dan continued to take savage pleasure in his confirmation that the whole world had gone wrong; himself – surely – above it all, coolly enjoying the idiots do what they do best, as Nathan started an unpleasant new craze called leafwedging, and Claire and everyone else continued to be enraptured.

Where punching Jonatton in his smirking face fit in with this detached self-image, he hadn’t quite decided yet. He’d dragged himself to a staff meeting as soon as he could (moved to a pretentious coffee shop near the House of Jones as Dan couldn’t tackle the stairs yet) and had managed to restrain himself through Rufus and Ned’s post-mortem of his ‘stunt’.

‘Dan, that was seriously cool.’ Ned had said, grinning at him inanely.

‘I really like the way you ironized conflict,’ Rufus agreed solemnly. Clearly he’d had stumbled across BBC 4 again.

‘Shame the jump went a bit Pete Tong,’ Ned rejoined.

Dan had made non-committal noises and smoked pointedly.

‘Yeah, I had a great chat with Nathan about it.’

The satisfaction in Jonatton’s voice was palpable and Dan felt an unpleasant shiver run through him.

‘What you guys did together was genius, Preacherman, I’m glad you’ve got an in with such a visionary creator. Maybe you can interview him for SugarApe?’

Dan didn’t really remember what happened next, afterwards all he had were vague flashes of punching the smug git, conveniently seated next to him, and hearing a slightly panicked Rufus shouting ‘Woah Dan, you’re really jumping the couch here!’ which just made him want to hit harder.

He’d barely landed a couple of very weak punches by the time Sasha had got round the table and was pulling him back. He’d stumbled and fallen onto the floor, wincing as his healing bones protested. Jonatton’s self-satisfied, only slightly battered, face loomed over his.

‘I think we’re gonna have to let you go, Dan, you’ve gone a bit mentalist. Don’t come back to the office, yeah?’

He hadn’t protested, only allowed himself to be silently guided to the door by Sasha.

‘Dan, you know I care about you. I think you really need some help.’

‘Oh right, is that why you’re feeling me up and trying to get me in a taxi? I don’t need help. I just need everyone to leave me the fuck alone and stop being such a fucking idiot.’

He’d regretted these words as soon as he’d said them, feeling guilt fester in the pit of his stomach as she icily insisted on hailing him a taxi and sarcastically refrained from helping him into it in case he thought she was raping him.

‘Here’s 20 quid for the taxi, consider if your redundancy I guess. Feel free to look me up when you’re ready to stop being a complete arsehole.’

He felt like such a dick he hadn’t even been able to look at her. But as he looked past her shoulder and saw the others laughing, undoubtedly about his meltdown, he couldn’t help but feel himself justified in his belief that the idiots were indeed winning.

When, a few days later, he smashed his phone on hearing that Nathan’s pilot had been picked up, he put it down to ironic self-expression and commended himself for the upper arm strength necessary to do damage to a Nokia 3310. That had also been the last time he’d seen Claire.

‘Jesus, Dan, I thought you’d be happy for me. I’m going to be the assistant _fucking_ director!’

‘Oh yeah? And how is fucking the director going?’

She’d packed her stuff then and there, both of them screaming at each other, hurling insults, accusations and counter-claims they’d held onto for years, backed up by Jones’ latest musical offering like the most suburban rap battle in history. As she’d stomped down the front steps, shouting one last ‘selfish, talentless prick’, he hurled back a barb about selling out and slammed the door before she could retaliate. By the rules of their childhood arguments last word won, and that was enough for him.

The buzz of victory hadn’t lasted long before he realised he now had no laptop, no phone, and no one to call. It was at this point he had discovered the delights of day time telly. He’d had enough time to justify this to himself as research, and to work out with at least a 90% degree of accuracy from Jeremy Kyle’s face whether or not the sprog belonged to the man with awful teeth, before the power went.

He dragged himself to the window and ascertained that this was not a block-wide powercut. He went into the living room to see Jones forlornly staring at his silent decks, still poking at them hopefully.

‘I think we’ve been cut off.’

Jones merely frowned.

‘I guess…. money?’ Dan trailed off, realising he had no idea about the financial situation. Claire had found this place and he’d never paid any rent before, he’d always assumed Claire just sorted it, always hoping she wouldn’t ask him for his half. ‘I meant to say, um, I guess since Claire is gone, she’s not paying rent anymore, so….’

‘Claire’s gone?’

‘Yeah, nearly 10 days ago.’

‘Oh right, yeah, she said - completely forgot, I get a bit confused when I haven’t slept for a while.’ Jones grinned, and not for the first time Dan tried to understand how he was still alive.

‘So the money-’ Dan began boldly, as if he had more than about four quid to his name.

‘She didn’t pay rent, it’s not that, they haven’t paid is all.’ Jones said, grabbing his phone and wandering off to another room.

Oh, right. He should have assumed that was the arrangement, knowing Claire. He began to grow angry, irrationally and unreasonably angry about this, but the more he thought about this the more he had to admit it was unlikely, since Claire seemed to hate Jones with every fibre of her being and Jones hadn’t even noticed her departure.

He spent the rest of the day sitting mutinously in the living room with a notebook pleading with his brain to say anything, wishing he were a woman so he could just write some bullshit winter skincare or boho chic article. Not that he expected most places would take anything written by him now Jonatton had made a few calls. ‘From Preacherman to Judas in Three Easy Steps’; perhaps that was a goer. The eerie quiet of the house was so distracting that at least he could use it as an excuse for the fact that by the end of the day all he’d produced was a penis saying ‘I’m Nathan Barley’. He briefly considered putting it on a t-shirt and selling it to Idiots who were attempting self-satire before deciding it wasn’t worth the huge profit he’d undoubtedly make.

As the sun set he was left alone in the darkening room, illuminated by the orange street lights outside. Jones came back soon after, mumbling something about being skint and sinking down onto the sofa with a melodramatic sigh. He started absently tapping a rhythm out on the sofa arm which should have driven Dan mad but didn’t.

‘It’s a bit dark, isn’t it.’

‘Yeah.’

Dan was becoming painfully aware of the fact that they’d never really been alone before, especially without the distractions of music for one, and hating everything on the internet for the other. He struggled for anything to say or do.

‘I know where Claire hid her vodka from you,’ Jones blurted out.

‘I think I have torches,’ Dan said at the same time.

They regrouped a couple of minutes later, in the silent understanding that with nothing else to do and nowhere to go they were going to have to keep each other entertained.

‘Why the fuck do you have three torches?’ Jones finally asked after a few minutes of silent drinking.

‘They’re for different tasks. One is more of a long-range general lighting, this one is for closer, high-powered examination, and this one is waterproof. I’ve just always quite liked stuff like this, I wanted to be an explorer when I was a kid. Which is really stupid,’ Dan replied, realising immediately after this unusually forthright speech that he hadn’t had a drink since before the fall.

‘Why is that stupid?’

Dan shrugged, uncomfortably reminded of the dreams he’d had as a child, his confident hopes that one day he’d do something, find something – set the world on fire in some way. Not end up sitting in the dark with a broken leg, three torches and a half-wit for company.

‘Anyway,’ he said, curiosity getting the better of him, ‘what was that you were talking about earlier? When you said they hadn’t paid?’

Jones didn’t reply immediately, but took a long, slow sip of vodka as he stared sullenly out of the window.

‘My parents. They went off on a long cruise and forgot to pay before they left.’

Dan couldn’t stop his eyebrows from shooting up in surprise. It was difficult to imagine Jones as someone who had parents, he just seemed to have squeezed fully-formed out of a pair of headphones. Another thought struck him.

‘Jones, do you own this place?’

He nodded.

‘Oh. I kind of assumed we were squatting or something.’

‘No.’

‘Why did you let me and Claire stay here?’

Jones looked at him awkwardly for a few moments. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t worked out how Claire met me. I mean, I’m a musician, she’s been making that sodding documentary for ages now…’

‘Oh shit, I’m sorry. No one told me about it.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t really ever talk about it.’

Dan supposed this made sense. They kept drinking silently for some time until Dan couldn’t contain himself any longer.

‘That window thing wasn’t actually a stunt.’ The words had come unbidden out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure why, but perhaps it had something to do with the air of the confessional that the room had taken on very quickly, and the openness with which Jones had told him about his addiction. That, and the neat vodka.

‘Oh. What d’you mean?’

The whole story came pouring out after that, the entire horrifying truth of his brief time as a blackmailer and its sorry conclusion.

‘So you weren’t even trying to kill yourself? It was just, like, you were – actually I’m not even really sure - what _was_ that was about?’

‘I guess I was just trying to get out.’

‘Out of the room? Cause there was a door,’ Jones suggested helpfully.

‘I don’t know. I was just so fucking angry that I ended up looking like a tit even though I’m not the tit, _he’s_ the tit.’

Jones started giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You are, you berk.’

‘Yeah, well.’

Their laughter died down leaving them in near silence, punctuated only by the singing of drunks outside. Dan was already sobering up and began to shift awkwardly, fiddling with his notebook.

‘I think I’m gonna head off to bed.’

Jones nodded. ‘I haven’t had any coffees today - I’m crashing pretty hard too.’

They parted, hobbling (well, one of them) in opposite directions with a torch apiece. Dan tried to sleep for hours, put on edge by the lack of throbbing music and discomfort at his acknowledgement that perhaps there was some way in which he had acted badly, had not been entirely the victim of events. He tried not to think about how bad this all must have sounded to Jones.

Jones. Whenever his thoughts strayed back to that particular subject the writhing guilt-snakes made a reappearance in his stomach. How could he have been so self-absorbed that he never asked, never even bothered to wonder about him? It felt too much like something one of The Idiots would do, however much he tried to push the thought from his head. As the day began to dawn he finally drifted off into a sleep filled with nightmares of perpetual failures and smug, stupid faces, almost sure he could hear a beat being tapped out on the other side of the wall.

 

 2

Dan woke with the unfamiliar sensation of the mid-day sun streaming through his windows, remembering he’d opened the curtains the day before for the light. It danced over the dust motes that saturated the air and he had several seconds of utter peace watching them, until his hangover hit him. Groaning, he made his way to the kitchen, thanking any and every god he could think of that they hadn’t had their water cut off too.

‘Alright, Dan?’

Jones was already sitting at the table in a similar condition, head in hands, tapping his foot under the table.

‘I hadn’t drunk in weeks. What was your excuse.’

‘Me neither. Addictive personality, remember? I generally stick to coffee.’

‘Oh, right, yeah. Sorry.’

‘You don’t need to keep apologising all the time.’

‘Sorry. Wait, I didn’t mean… you know what I meant,’ He protested as Jones made a face of mock outrage. He rifled through the cupboards, having finally run through the last of the shopping Claire had done. He found only a cache of stale pop tarts and strawberry bootlaces.

‘Well, I had to find something other than coffee to balance out the heroin. I think inevitable diabetes is a reasonable trade-off,’ Jones explained, seeing his expression.

‘I’m not sure if you’re joking or not.’

‘Yeah, I am joking. The icing on those is actually pure cocaine.’

‘No, but seriously. Are you ok.’

This seemed to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

‘Really? You’re suddenly fucking concerned about me? You think now that Dan ‘I’m literally Jesus’ Ashcroft is aware of the situation he’s the one to step in and fix things with all the wisdom in his giant brain?’ He mocked, gesturing melodramatically, ‘I’ve actually got on fine without that, thanks. I can probably do alright without tips from the man who jumps out of windows for a laugh. _And_ can’t fucking land on a van about one fucking metre away from him. I mean who bounces like an _elastic retard_ -’ He came to a sudden halt, aware of the viciousness of his outburst.

Dan said nothing. With as much dignity and poise as he and his broken leg could muster he shuffled out of the room and back to his. He felt hollow, pained not by insult but by the truth of what Jones had said to him; that Jones was actually doing fine and he himself was not. That he had nothing to offer him – or anyone. He spent what felt like hours staring blankly at his notebook again, feebly trying to turn his pain into art, or some bullshit like that, and discovering that self-inflicted, embarrassed distress was not nearly so good a motivator. He was shading a beautifully lettered ‘I’M A TWAT’ when there was a soft knock on the door. Jones came in without waiting for an answer and stood in the middle of the room, looking strangely small and lost like a child, or at least a child who had tripped into a Camden dressing up box.

‘I was a bit harsh back there. I just don’t talk about that. Ever. I’m not very good at talking about it.’ As the string of frustrated therapists could confirm, he thought to himself.

‘Neither am I, apparently. Sorry I was a bit of a twat.’

The slackening of the tension in the room was palpable, as Jones grabbed a coloured pen and began to work on Dan’s shading and adding stars, his familiar smile back, still tapping absent-mindedly. Almost without thinking Dan began to hum softly to the same tune.

‘You’re not half bad at that.’

‘I was in the choir and orchestra at school, kind of wanted to be a musician when I was younger.’

‘There’s a lot of things you wanted to be when you were younger, isn’t there.’

Jones couldn’t understand why this made Dan nod so glumly.

‘Well we’ve learnt a lot in a day, haven’t we? You wanted to be a musical explorer, I’m a homeowner and ex-junkie,’ He joked, trying to claw back the atmosphere of a few minutes previously. To his relief, Dan smiled again. They lapsed back into silence, Jones tapping and drawing, Dan reading a book he’d pulled absently from the shelves. After a while Jones began to get bored.

‘Dan. Dan. _Dan?_ ’

‘Hmm?’

‘What are you reading?’

‘The Jungle Book,’ He replied a little sheepishly. ‘I know it’s a bit childish, but I like to reread books from when I was a kid when I’m feeling a bit down.’

‘What’s it about?’ He asked, countering Dan’s astonished look defensively; ‘I don’t read much. Never really liked it.’ _Never got the hang of it properly anyway, only ended up making my mum angry, make her say things she didn’t really mean, so best to leave the whole thing alone_.

‘It’s about this boy Mowgli who was raised by animals in the jungle.’

‘Oh yeah, I think I saw that documentary on it, about those weird feral children who can’t talk or wear shoes.’

‘No, it’s fiction. And Mowgli can talk, he’s _really_ good at talking, actually, he can talk to people but also to wolves and bears and there’s a panther-‘ The smile had utterly fallen from Jones’ face, his expression replaced by one of such intense fear that it stopped Dan dead in his tracks.

‘Are you ok?’

Silence. Punctuated only by the sound of a fly which had buzzed into the room.

‘Jones?’

Still no sound except the fly’s feeble attempts to leave what was so clearly a bad atmosphere that even a fucking _insect_ could sense it, by flying into the wall again and again. Jones had now stood up and was beginning to pace agitatedly across the length of the floor, tapping frantically yet seemingly absent-mindedly on his bare arm.

‘Jones, you’re sort of freaking me out now.’

He slammed his hand down on the table and shouted ‘Just go out the fucking window already!’ Not even deigning to look at Dan, before exiting both the room and the house before Dan could even draw a breath.

He was left alone in the silent room, frozen in shock at what had just happened. He had thought, for a moment there he’d genuinely thought...  well clearly he was wrong. As usual. He was wrong, and still utterly alone, and Jones was an Idiot who’d been playing some kind of trick on him. That or completely insane. Which still equated to the same thing practically speaking.

He cried. For the first time since he’d realised he was bad at playing the trumpet all those years ago. Not just cried, but sobbed, caterwauled, shrieked unearthly noises at the unfairness of life, his own short-comings, the people who had stopped him from giving more with his life. He ran out of energy before sadness and lay there, wondering if this was what Graham off that show would have calmly called his ‘rock bottom’, and hoping it was, before he finally fell into an uneasy but mercifully catatonic sleep.

Until he was roughly shaken awake.

‘Hey. Dan I need to talk to you.’

The sour smell of alcohol was overwhelming.

‘ _Dan._ ’

‘What the fuck do you want.’

‘Have to explain.’

He’d opened his eyes to be confronted by a familiar pair of eyes glinting somewhat wildly in the moonlight.

‘Oh. Right.’ He was too exhausted to argue properly but hoped he at least sounded withering, if laconically so.

‘I wasn’t talking to you when I said that. Only realised like, twenty minutes ago you might have thought that.’

‘Oh, well who were you talking to then? The wardrobe? That chair?’

Jones suddenly stopped and sprang back to his feet, pacing and running his fingers through his hair.

‘It wasn’t to you.’

‘Then who? Can’t be that difficult to say, can it?’

More silence and pacing.

‘You just don’t want to admit you think I should just kill myself.’

Jones let out an anguished cry and rushed back to the bedside and if this was a lie, Dan had to admit he was a brilliant actor, especially as he appeared and smelled like he’d drunk his bodyweight in rum. Even now Dan couldn’t help wondering who he’d found to buy him so many drinks and feel a stab of anger, though over what he couldn’t say.

‘Ok so…..’ Jones began. He stopped. He started again. ‘I was talking to that fly that couldn’t get out of the window.’

‘Right.’

‘I was stressed out ‘cause you were telling me about that Mowgli bloke and-‘ He stopped briefly, breathing deeply, trying to control it. ‘It’s why I’ve always needed a distraction. It was the drugs, now it’s the music – I need to blot the sound out.’

‘I don’t really under-.’

Jones went on, seemingly not able to stop or to hear Dan.

‘-and I was just so stressed out and I couldn’t play music and that _fucking_ fly was all ‘Ohhhhh this isn’t the exit, ohhhhhhh this isn’t the exit either, this is just more of the same substance blocking my way and hindering me as I go about my business’ and I just couldn’t take it anymore and I….‘ He trailed off and put his head in his hands.

Dan was slowly beginning to understand – well, understand was a strong word – what Jones was saying.

‘Does anyone else know?’

Jones could still vividly remember the reactions of the people he had told in the past; his parents and the few friends he’d had as a child, and the many therapists he’d been frogmarched to. From his parents he’d had disgust and incredulity, from his friends sarcastic reactions to his ‘attention-seeking’, and worst of all were the condescending discussions about his ‘rich inner life’, as several professionals had put it. He remembered the shame he seemed to cause his mother with his claims that the cat next door was admiring their floral scheme, or that her pet parakeet kept shrieking ‘FREEDOM OR DEATH’ – and her fury when he set it free so it didn’t have to choose the latter. Then again, he’d brought about the same reaction from her with his insistence on using nail polish and glitter spray as often as he could get his hands on them; another habit he’d crushed back down over time, just as he’d learnt not to tell anyone about what he could hear, just in case, as his father used to threaten him, he’d get locked up and never be able to go out again. The drugs had definitely made this easier, though his parents hadn’t shared this view of the situation.

‘Everyone thought I was a liar. My parents especially. They were so embarrassed by everything, that’s why they pay up to just keep me away and quiet.’

‘Yeah well they sound like a pair of twats.’

Jones managed to grin for a second before he started to cry with slightly more decorum than Dan had managed earlier. He felt giddy with the physical lightness of relief brought about by telling someone about his, well, curse, not to be too melodramatic, and the unfamiliar shock of being met not with derision but defence and understanding. There was also a stab of regret to have discovered after years of isolation that perhaps it hadn’t had to be like that. But, underlying everything, was fear at the possibility that the only person who would ever accept what he said was the very same person who just had.

In the end all he could get out was ‘Yeah, they are.’

As he fell back to sleep, Dan felt an arm snaking across his chest and a damp patch that he hoped was tears soaking into his t-shirt sleeve.

 

3

He woke up by himself. Stumbling into the living room he found Jones slumped on the sofa, no longer drunk but still a mess.

‘Alright?’

Jones didn’t reply, or even look at him.

‘You ok? I’ve probably got some Alka Seltzer knocking about.’

Still, Jones looked anywhere but him, fiddling a lock of hair through his fingers. He had left hours before, starting to panic even before he had woken up, the gravity of what he’d said hitting him now in a way it couldn’t the night before.

‘Hey now, it’s gonna be ok. I do believe you, you know.’

‘What, actually?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

Dan shrugged.

Jones decided he didn’t think he was taking the piss and supposed he had to make do with that.  For now at least. Jones stretched out like a cat, the fear that had kept him locked in one place all morning dissipating. ‘It’s beautiful out today.’ He said absently.

‘I haven’t been out in ages.’

‘Why don’t we go somewhere?’

The question frightened Dan. The fact it frightened him made him feel even worse.

‘Doesn’t have to be anything major, why don’t we just go to the park? It’s only down the road.’

‘The park. Right.‘

Even before the fall, Dan couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something so simple as just go to the park. The last few – months? Could it be years? – were nothing more than a nightmarish rollercoaster of awful parties, tedious interviews and uninspired write-ups in that pretentious office. His world had been shrunk to the small run of streets between the House of Jones, the office and the other burrows of East London where media types had dug in and begun to multiply like cockroaches, only less appealing and cultured.

‘You’re gonna have to wheel me, though, if it’s for more than a few minutes,’ He finally said, and Jones smiled at his acquiescence, however hesitant it was.

Within a few minutes they were out of the door, Dan settling into the wheelchair.

‘This is the first time I’ve been out in weeks.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s the first time I’ve been out without music or drugs in years.’

Dan felt a rush of gratitude at this response. Everything he’d said or done– or screamed at audiences dressed as a fucking vicar – in the last few months, he was beginning to realise, had been a cry for help. And every time it had been met with short-tempered derision from Claire, smirking from Jonatton and, worst of all, acclaim by everyone else. But Jones had not done any of these things. He had listened. He had matched him truth for truth, hurt for hurt. In the space of two days he had begun to feel that perhaps he wasn’t entirely alone.

‘Aren’t we a pair.’

Jones smiled at this and began pushing him along the pavement. The park was full of parents and small children, running about, laughing, banding together for games and friendships that were all consuming today and would be forgotten tomorrow, not from malice or ruthlessness as he’d seen and experienced so often recently, but from the easy experience of a life surrounded by decent people. No one here was in the slightest bit concerned with irony or coolness and if it was a slightly alien setting to Dan, it was also extremely welcome. The trees were budding and blossoms rained onto him, pooling in his hands as he stared at them and smelled the sweet, clean air. In the pond, birds were noisily gathering around the offerings of bread being thrown at them by delighted toddlers. Jones giggled at one particularly raucous duck.

‘What’s it saying?’

Without reservation, Jones explained through his laughter. ‘He’s a right prick, he’s moaning about the bread being fucking wholemeal again, and says that he misses the old bint who brought fruitcake.’

‘If we had the money, I’d love to see his reaction to some of that gluten free stuff Sasha swears by.’ Dan made a mental note to go and apologise to her as soon as he could.

‘Oh yeah, about that. I got a text from my parents this morning; they’ve paid and we should be reconnected by the day after tomorrow. And I’ve got money again.’

‘Oh, nice.’

They stayed there for hours, chatting about anything and everything they could think of. Perhaps this sudden intimacy should have been overwhelming, but the thought didn’t cross either of their minds for a moment. Far too soon the park was being locked up for the evening and they were making their way home.

It was only after several drinks – their last for some time they both agreed, and only to celebrate their imminent re-connection to society – that Jones had the courage to ask Dan the question that had been bothering him all day.

‘Seriously though, why did you believe me? I mean, I get that you do and I’m so happy but…’

‘Do you actually want to know?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘When I was a kid I used to hear the moon talking. I used to tell my mum what he was saying and she’d laugh at me. Just like she used to laugh when I said I was going to explore the jungles and tundras and be a famous musician and travel to space, ‘cause she thought I was joking.  So then I stopped listening, and told myself that I hadn’t really ever heard it. But I know it was real and that he’s still talking up there.’

‘Wow, that sounds a bit mental’

‘Yeah, who would admit something like that?’

‘Probably someone really stupid.’

‘Probably.’

‘Can you still hear it?’

‘I’m not sure, I haven’t tried to in years.’

‘I bet he had some pretty cool stuff to say - I mean he just sits there floating in space seeing everything.’

‘No, that was the weird thing, he’s actually really stupid. He just used to go on about flapjacks and pine trees and stuff like that, even when he was talking about serious stuff. He used to say being hit by asteroids was like getting a back massage if the person only had stumps not hands.’

‘How would he even know that?’

‘God knows.’

‘So today we’ve learnt that birds are dicks and the moon’s a retard.’

‘Basically. Shame I can’t write an article about it and try and get back in.’

Jones’ face fell slightly.

‘Is that was you really want to do?’

‘What?’

‘Go back to them? To that? I mean, they were pretty shit to you. And they did make you jump out of a window.’

‘Yeah, well you still talk to your parents and they weren’t exactly great either.’

‘But these people aren’t your _parents,_ Dan, you can just walk away from them. I can’t exactly make up new parents can I?’

‘Why not?’ Dan joked.

‘I guess I could, I could just start telling people I was raised in the jungle by a leopard or whatever that story in your book said. I could say it enough times until it began to seem real.’

‘Yeah, you’d be like Mowgli in drainpipes.’

‘If only.’

They both sat in silence for a short while.

‘I’ve been happy the last few days, you know,’ Jones said uncertainly, as if afraid that saying it would shatter an illusion.

‘Yeah, me too,’ Dan agreed, his chest tightening at the unbearable possibility of losing this and of going back to before.

‘Jones, why don’t we just run away.’

‘You what?’

‘I’m serious. Let’s just go. Leave all these shitty people and this shitty place.’

‘Alright then,’ Jones replied, without even missing a beat.

‘Really?’

Jones nodded.

‘I don’t have a plan. I hadn’t thought that statement out to be honest.’

‘That’s ok.’

‘Maybe we should find a zoo, you are uniquely qualified.’

‘Yeah, maybe. Or instead we could become musical explorers like you wanted. Or both.’

Dan smiled. He knew Jones was joking, of course, and that they could never do any of these things. They didn’t have a single strategy, skill or useful qualification between them. No idea of where they were going to go or what they were going to do. But they could be more themselves than either of them had ever allowed before, could look for adventures even if they didn’t lead to the end of the world or beyond, could support and be supported. As long as this was the case, it didn’t really matter where they were. Let the whole sorry lot of Idiots continue their parade without them.

They fell asleep arm in arm that night, still sitting on their sofa, staring at the night sky through the open window. Jones was telling stories, amazing and fantastical stories, about his childhood in the jungle, raised by snakes and monkeys and-

‘Bryan Ferry? Really?’

‘Yeah, what’s wrong with that?’ Jones replied defensively.

‘Think you might need to work on that bit.’

Jones pouted.

‘So anyway, _Bryan_ used to leave me alone quite a bit, and this one time I taught all the frogs in the marsh to dance along to- what are you laughing at now?’

‘Not at you. I can hear the moon, he’s asking why he can’t lick his elbow.’

‘Wow. He really is thick, isn’t he.’

‘He heard that, you know. He’s trying to remember his circumference to decide if that was an insult or a fact.’

‘He doesn’t have like, laser eyes or something does he? If he does tell me what he decides. Anyway, so yeah, the frogs……’


End file.
